Some of the most useful “tools” in my self-care/mental health “toolbox” seem to be those to do with pain management, or which serve some other purpose, but also make it maybe a bit easier to manage pain. This seems odd to me any time I’m not in pain, but when I wake twisted with arthritis pain early on some morning, I’m grateful.
The view I woke to is no less beautiful because of pain.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
I woke in pain to a cooler morning. The sunrise isn’t visible from here, but I see it reflected in the pink hues of the dawn sky over the western horizon. A distant bank of stormy looking clouds hangs above the horizon, a dark gray beneath fluffy white. The ocean reflects back silver gray like brushed aluminum, each wave reaching the shore crested in a curl of white. The ebb tide seems to sound different to me than the flood tide that will come later today, sometime in the afternoon.
…If the beach were just a little bit easier to get to from here, I’d already be headed down there to check out the tide pools before the day warms up, and while the beach is deserted. I hurt too much for that right now, and I want to paint later, so I sip my coffee and avoid exhausting myself…
Gulls fly by the window, calling to each other. A crow flies by. The morning sky continues to evolve. I sip my coffee letting the dawn sky and the beach scene beyond the window entice me with inspiration. Swallows swoop and dive just beyond the window. There are so many! The textured gray of the ocean holds my attention for a while, working out just how to capture that in pastels. Breakfast crosses my mind, and more coffee.
A beautiful view is sometimes enough distraction.
One of the most powerful pain management tools I’ve got doesn’t come in a pill. It’s distraction. Simply that; distracting myself from focusing on my pain prevents it from dominating my experience in the moment and frees my attention for other things. By itself, it may not reliably be enough to manage my pain, but it is useful, and it really does help to focus on other things, most particularly things that may evoke wonder, curiosity, awe, joy, or delight. I’m grateful for this beautiful view.
…I’m grateful for this solitary time…
I stretch and sigh to myself. Practices being what they are, there are things yet to do this morning to begin the day. Meditation. A walk (yes, even in this amount of pain, I just have to go to a beach access point that doesn’t involve endless stairs down a cliff to get to the beach) – my morning never feels quite right if I don’t get a walk in more or less first thing. lol My bones feel less stiff, and I know a hot shower will help more. I think about the day ahead as the view continues to evolve.
“Are we there yet?” What a strange journey. I sip my morning coffee looking out over the beach at the ocean. I woke to a lovely pearly dawn – and I slept in! What a treat. My first cup of coffee this morning is better than it was last time I stayed here. There is a new and very clean coffee machine in the room. It’s not fantastic coffee, but it’s not bad. I sip it carefully as it cools a bit, contemplating what it takes to make a truly exceptional cup of coffee. What do I even consider to be “a truly exceptional cup of coffee”? I sigh and let it go; as with most things, enough is truly enough.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
The view I woke to this morning.
I think further about sufficiency, and remind myself that there are circumstances in which “sufficiency” is easily conflated with some compromise in cost or availability or timing that renders something wholly inadequate to the purpose at hand – in which case that isn’t “sufficient” at all, it’s an unfortunate compromise that does not work out well.
…We have to balance a lot of choices in this human life…
I sip my coffee thinking about tools, and how having the right tool for the job is pretty important. A poor choice of tool can ruin delicate work, or slow down completion of an important task. Living a life in which “sufficiency” is an important practice doesn’t mean making poor choices, it’s more about making wise ones. It’s an important distinction. Sometimes what is “sufficient” is actually a whole lot more in some way that I expect it to be. What is “enough” for me, in this moment or for this purpose, may not be “enough” for someone else, or for some other need, or some other time. It feels a bit like a moving goal post, but it is more to do with context and understanding.
…My Mazda is entirely sufficient for my own needs, but it made for a very poor substitute for a pick-up truck for my Traveling Partner’s work needs…
I listen to the waves crash in as I sip my coffee. Is it “sufficient”? Probably. Will I still go forth into the world for something better? Yes, I will. I’m not visiting the coast to experience austerity or seeking to limit myself solely to what is sufficient, this morning – I’m here to paint and to fill my senses with the wind and the waves, and my mind with inspiration. I’m not saying that requires a better cup of coffee, but I would enjoy one. Maybe with a freshly made bagel, down on the beach, perched on the end of some massive driftwood log, with a good view of the rock formation beyond my window, and shaded by the cliff that separates the town from the sea? That sounds pretty good. Definitely better than bad.
What will I find down on the beach?
Yesterday was hot. This hotel room does not have AC (it was built before climate change brought seriously hot days to the summers in this region). I had the window open to the cool sea breeze, but after miles of beach walking in the morning, the heat of the afternoon knocked me out and I napped on and off into the evening – and then still slept through the night! It was a delight to wake to the morning light flooding the room. This room has a nice angle and the light will be good for painting, a little later. I feel rested and alert and alive. I finish my coffee, and morning meditation. I sit awhile, letting my mind wander, listening to the waves.
Each time for the first time. Each moment the only moment. Ichi-go ichi-e. Be here now. Vita contemplativa. The clock is ticking – so what? Let it tick. There is time for “now”.
It is a new day. My birthday is behind me, and a new year waits ahead of me.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
A robin greets the day as I water the garden.
I get to the more distant trailhead for the marsh trail that travels past the Tualatin River. Yesterday was the trail at Spring Valley. Tomorrow the trail at Basket Slough. After that, a couple days of painting on the coast. What an extraordinary birthday celebration. I love how much it has been more about presence and experiences than presents. I didn’t go without gifts, happily, and I’ve got quite a delightful stack of new books to read.
Software upgrades for a human primate.
63 was a good year, generally speaking. I wonder what awaits me in the year ahead?
Finally learning to play chess.
I breathe, exhale, and relax. It’s a beautiful morning. The clock is ticking. It’s time to begin again.
The morning mist caught me by surprise. No reason it should, I suppose; the temperature warmed in the wee hours after several cool Spring days, and today is expected to be hot (27C/80F). Tomorrow is forecast to be even hotter, and there is an extreme heat advisory.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
The sunrise began with a ferocious heat-threatening diffuse orange. Pretty, although I’m not looking forward to the heat or increased wildfire risk. I remind myself to drink plenty of water.
Beautiful sunrise, hot day ahead.
The mist clings to the low places, gathering in near the rivers and creeks mostly. It envelopes me as the trail turns to wrap around the vineyard, leading me down closer to the creek that runs adjacent to the trail. As I walk I wonder if maybe I should have worn a fleece or my cardigan? It’s not hot yet. 😆 I’m chilly, in spite of walking.
I get to my halfway point and stop to write and reflect. It is Thursday. (Already?) Tomorrow is my birthday, 63. (Already?) I’m taking a few days off, an entire week. My Traveling Partner is in the middle of an important work project. He encouraged me to consider fucking off for a couple days, and I make plans for a couple nights on the coast. It’s nice to have that kind of freedom. I feel very loved. So far this is an extraordinary birthday celebration. Yesterday he gave me another book – and I’m thoroughly delighted – Barbara Walters “How to Talk With Practically Anybody About Practically Anything”, which I’ve wanted for a long time. It was a surprise that it is also a first edition in excellent condition.
There is so much more to find within the pages of a book than mere words on pages.
… I’ve got a lovely stack of books to read…
…63?
I don’t “feel my age”. I’m not sure I gave much thought to what being 63 would feel like, though. I feel more or less as I’ve always felt. The feeling of age or aging only hits me when I notice my capacity for manual labor is less than in my twenties, or I happen to take a longer look at my hands. “Aches and pains” don’t signal age for me; I’ve lived with serious chronic pain since my twenties. There’s some gray in my hair. Arthritis that was limited to my damaged spine for a lot of years turns up in my joints now, too. But, generally speaking, 63 feels like any other year. I will probably enjoy it every bit as much as I’ve enjoyed 62. 😆 The clock is ticking, but mostly I don’t notice.
I breathe, exhale, and relax. Pretty morning for meditation. The morning sun lights the trees along the trail. The mist begins to thin and fade away. There’s a whole new day ahead, then my birthday.
I happily contemplate a couple days on the coast as the weekend wanes… I’ll set off early, after I water the lawn in the morning. I’ll pack light, maybe bring my pastels, and load the car the night before. I’ll be gone just as the sun rises, probably, and I know my Traveling Partner will miss me – that’s part of the point. Having that chance to miss each other prevents us taking each other for granted, over time. I anticipate the joy of walking miles of beach in the cool morning breeze, and enjoying an iced coffee at some choice spot to sit and listen to the waves caress the shore, and the gulls calling to each other overhead. There’s a fantastic bagel shop near a beach I like, and I look forward to a fantastic bagel on the beach. It’s the kind of small delight that I savor. They add up to an immense quantity of joy, over time.
I smile contentedly. The best part about a couple days of solitary time away is returning home to a cozy life filled with love. I’ll never be wealthy but I feel rich; I have love.
I take a deep breath of the cool morning air and taste the scent of flowers. Summer is coming. I look down the trail amazed by how far this journey has taken me. 16 years ago I could not imagine being actually happy, like, at all, ever. I figured settling for surviving my life would be the best I could do. I’m grateful to have given myself a chance to continue on. I would not trade this life as it is for any other. My first real glimpses of happiness left me more confused than appreciative; I was ignorant of real lasting love, and certainly had no skill at being happy when happy moments turned up. It took practice just to accept the possibility of happiness. There was still so much chaos and damage to sort out. So much to learn about love and loving. There’s still more to learn even now. I’m okay with that. The journey is the destination and I’m traveling in very good company.
I glance at the time and the clear blue sky. It’s time to walk on. It’s time to begin again.
It was the anxiety that woke me, drenched in hot sweat, feeling a weight on my chest, breathless and on the edge of panic, in a quiet, dark room, in the wee hours before dawn. What the hell? I forced myself to remain still, and artificially calm. “Breathe!” I commanded my still waking consciousness sternly. I exhaled slowly, emptying my lungs. Another deep breath, another slow complete exhalation. I turned on a dim light as I continue to breathe, exhale, and relax.
[No AI is used in writing or editing this blog. This is human content for human readers.]
“Anxiety” 2011
Anxiety is a very human experience. Certainly there’s no shortage of shit that might make us anxious in the modern world. Here? Now? In a dimly lit comfortable bedroom in a safe suburban neighborhood during the quiet hours before a new day begins there really doesn’t seem to be anything going on worth feeling anxious about. That’s all anxiety is, after all, a feeling. The lived experience of human biochemistry misfiring in the darkness. Fucking hell I definitely dislike feeling anxious. The worst of it is the way my mind immediately goes into overdrive trying to ascribe an “obvious” cause to it that seems plausible enough to become difficult to shake, however ridiculous it actually is.
I get up. Dress. Head out for the local trail I favor for a pleasant morning walk. The anxiety goes with me, this morning. It is what it is. I keep breathing. I keep reminding myself that “anxiety is a liar”, which I have found to be reliably true.
A peaceful spot suitable for a moment of reflection.
I sit with my thoughts awhile, near a small chapel alongside the first section of the trail. I’m in no hurry. Coffee with a friend a little later, and a bit of a drive to get there. The morning is my own. I think wistfully of my Traveling Partner, still sleeping at home. I hope my anxiety didn’t disturb his rest.
I breathe, exhale, relax. Meditation before my walk isn’t my usual practice. This morning I need the benefit of that cultivated moment of peace before I set off down the trail. There’s no self-critical pressure being applied, no disappointment over feeling anxious. This is the moment I’m in, and the experience I’m having. It doesn’t seem to be connected to anything, and I’m not surprised by that. I’ve got a diagnosis for good reasons. This anxiety is “disordered” – it’s “not real”, in the sense that there is no external cause at all. It is inappropriate to the circumstances. Baggage. The leavings of past trauma and whatever the fuck else causes a human body to fire off a bunch of chemical signals that suggest there is some dire circumstance afoot. (There just isn’t, and anxiety is a liar.)
On the other hand, the feeling of anxiety, the experience of the chemistry of it, is very real and very troublesome. I breathe through it, repeating the cyclical breathing I know specifically helps calm my nervous system. That’s very real, too. I’m still surprised how much effect specific breathing patterns can have on my subjective experience. The way my breathing can directly and immediately change how I feel is amazing. Sometimes it takes a bit of discipline. Real practice. Verbs. Persistence.
I stand and stretch as it begins to sprinkle. I’m fairly close to the car, so I walk back for my rain poncho. The walking also calms my anxiety quite a lot, especially when I am present in the moment and not all up in my head.
Even as the anxiety begins to dissipate, I feel it clawing at my brain trying to latch on to some idea or experience to find justification that will feed it. I keep brushing aside the impulse to make it “about” something. Not helpful. I roll my eyes and walk on down the trail.
For some of us, building and maintaining mental health and emotional wellness is a lifelong endeavor that can feel a little frustrating when it seems endlessly unresolved. Solutions feel impermanent, because they are. Life doesn’t stand still and mental illness is pretty persistent. Whether we take medication or practice a strict diet and exercise regimen, or maintain a committed meditation practice, or see a therapist regularly, or some combination of things that we’ve found some measure of success with, for many people mental health isn’t a given – it’s a struggle. There’s no easy cure in a pill. Mental health isn’t that simple. Trauma remakes us. The ideal biochemical balance for any one human primate isn’t clear. There’s a shitload of trial and error involved in finding what works for any one human being – and finding it doesn’t guarantee lasting relief.
…So… This morning I woke to anxiety. This morning I walk with anxiety. This morning I practice the practices that work best for me, not out of habit, and not because I generally find value and resilience in them, but because I really need all the tools at my disposal to kick anxiety’s ass another day.
As I walk, I feel the anxiety slowly beginning to dissipate. Sometimes it takes awhile. I’m grateful to deal with it alone this morning; less risk of unnecessary drama erupting from the lies my anxiety tells me. I breathe the fresh scent of petrichor and Spring flowers. I exhale the last remnants of tension from this mortal body. I repeat the breathing and the feeling of relief is also repeated. Breathe in, breathe out, walk on… It mostly works for me, and this morning it’s enough.
… Like anything else, anxiety is impermanent. It will pass. If I don’t feed it, it will starve…
I get to my halfway spot with my thoughts, and a beautiful sunrise on an overcast drizzly morning. I’m okay for most values of “okay”. My results vary, but there’s really nothing amiss and it’s a lovely morning. I can begin again.
